Dirty, Dirty Boys
by Bea Ryan
Summary: Bass, Miles, Jason, and Tom enter a mud wrestling cage match. (The finale of the Friends In Low Places bromance series.)


A/N: This is the final chapter of the Bass and Jason Bromance Series. Hopefully they each make sense alone but this episode in particular does reference the events in "Just Say Whoa." FFN is being pesky about links, so add the words .net in front of the "s" if you want to go to the stories. You can also click on my name and my list will come up.

#1 Beer Run - s/9573593/1/Beer-Run

#2 You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet - s/9576297/1/You-Ain-t-Seen-Nothing-Yet

#3 Down In Flames - s/9578904/1/Down-in-Flames

#4 Just Say Whoa - s/9583602/1/Just-Say-Whoa

* * *

The crack of the bat on the ball resounded again and Charlie waited for the clink of broken glass. Instead, the ball sailed silently through an already broken window.

"Why exactly are we letting him destroy the east side of the building?" she asked Miles.

Miles didn't answer. There was no good reason to let this run except that Bass had never dealt well with his feelings. If breaking a few windows kept him from breaking bones then it seemed to be a comparatively small price. Miles, Charlie, Rachel, and Tom had come out of their makeshift suite of apartments in the old school when they heard the first window smash. None of them had intervened as four more broke or when Bass had retrieved his balls and begun a second round of self-pitches.

Miles leaned against a tree and tried to formulate a strategy. As much as he hated to admit it, this temper tantrum was about Jason. They hadn't meant to drive him away, but once Jason had sobered up the story had been too good to let lie. He'd been ashamed at first and taken the ribbing with his head hung, but the teasing had continued long past the point when his patience ran out. He'd finally snapped when Charlie had presented him with a bouquet of flowers she'd picked from his "field of fucks." He'd announced that he was moving into town and no one had a compelling reason for him to stay. They hadn't engaged the Patriots in months.

The smash and tinkle of broken glass let them know Bass had hit another window.

"You gonna haul that boy back or are we going to sedate 'Mr. President'?" Tom asked.

"Are you going to torment him right back out again if I do?"

"I'll leave him alone as long as he earns his keep. People like Monroe when he looks sane. He makes a nice spokesmodel. If Jason can keep him between the lines then I guess we have to keep Jason."

That was the crux of it really. People responded to Bass. It was the same reason he'd been named president the first time. They needed every recruit they could get for the coming fight. Miles hadn't anticipated needing Jason as more than a sharpshooter, but if he had a bigger role to play then Miles would make sure he played it.

Cautiously Miles crossed the field towards Bass.

"You know there's only one way to kill a story that good," Miles said.

Bass eyed him warily.

"A better story," Miles continued. "Let's go bring him home."

* * *

Tom surveyed the scene before him with a sneer. "Explain this to me as if I don't spend a lot of time engaged in deviant behavior in dive bars."

"It's an eight man mud match," Miles said. "We each pay ten bucks to get in. Last man standing gets fifty bucks, bottle of liquor, and the esteem of the..." he paused to survey the world-weary, jaded crowd, and grasped for an appropriate adjective. "The esteem of the ladies. With four of us against four random guys one of us should win. We'll come out ahead and have a little bonding experience. Bonding. It's fun. Right?"

Tom eyed the women scattered throughout the crowd and rated two as acceptable options. Somewhere in the world his Julia was doing what she needed to do to survive. When he found her they wouldn't talk about their time apart. He wanted to have something not to say while he wasn't asking her about the things they were going to pretend she hadn't done. If it came to it he'd tell her he'd entered a bar contest to help their idiot son make up with his boyfriend.

"If I do this, win or lose, you'll move back to the schoolhouse?" Tom said to Jason.

"Do I ever have to hear about that night again?" he asked.

Bass clapped him on the back. "That's why we're here. We need a new, better story. One that's equally embarrassing for all of us. Then you can come home."

Jason looked into his friend's sad eyes and homesickness hit him in the gut again. He hadn't realized their relationship had grown beyond bored Wednesday night beers, but it had. He'd noticed it when he drank his coffee alone in the morning, when he'd wanted to go for a run and had to go by himself, and when he'd unpacked his baseball and realized there was no one to throw it back. He'd played more catch in the last two months than in the prior fifteen years, and he missed it now that it was gone.

"I'm in," he said.

Miles paid their entry fees and the four men assembled around the ring along with four strangers. Wagers were collected by the ring manager as the patrons evaluated the wrestlers. Two of the strangers seemed to be in it for the grab ass, one was looking for a fight and would settle for wrestling, the fourth looked like a ringer hired by the house.

"Ladies and gentleman," the ring manager roared. "I present to you eight warriors ready to take to the field of dirty, dirty deeds. Punching is forbidden. Grabbing is encouraged. When a man lands face down in the mud, he's out of the running for the prize and should remove himself from the ring before something," he paused to leer suggestively at the crowd, "Unseemly happens."

The ring manager turned to the fighters. "Gentleman, the less you wear the harder it is for them to grab you, but the choice is up to you." Miles and Tom ignored him, each focused on a man across the ring. Tom eyed a young blond man vaguely reminiscent of Danny. He seemed to be here for the experience, and Tom was willing to give it to him. Miles locked eyes with the ringer and clenched his fists. The man's wiry muscles were covered with old scars and bruises in various shade of recovery. Punching might be forbidden, but accidents happen and with the larger man out Miles felt sure one of the four of them could win the cash and the booze. Bass and Jason doffed their shirts and shoes. Bass locked eyes with the fighter, leaving Jason to the inspection of the playboy.

The bell rang and each man approached his opponent. Tom grabbed the blond's shoulder and shoved him to his knees. The man smiled up at him in wide eyed awe. Tom ignored the adulation and shoved the man to the ground, pressing a foot into his back to be sure he counted as down. He leaned over and whispered, "You're out, son," then he stepped back to survey the situation, content to let his compatriots wear themselves out on the others so he'd have an easier time besting them.

Jason also made quick work of his opponent, tackling the smaller man and straddling him, pinning him on his back, before flipping him over face down in the mud.

Bass and the fighter were dancing around each other, both eager to throw punches but aware of the rules. Instead they slapped at each other, landing loud, open-handed hits that left them both unsatisfied and made no progress in the match. Jason climbed off his opponent and swept the legs of Bass's. Bass pounced and together they flipped the fighter to his stomach, knocking him out of the match. As he got up to leave the ring he threw a hard roundhouse punch that knocked Bass backwards into Miles's opponent. The man landed on Miles and all three were left squirming in the mud. Jason, still on all fours in the mud from his previous encounter, approached cautiously to help take out the ringer. Tom smirked from the corner.

Bass and Jason each grabbed one of the man's ankles, roughly pulling him backwards but unable to get sufficient purchase on the slippery ring floor to jerk him off of Miles. The man was at a thirty degree angle to the ground. Only his grip on Miles's shirt prevented his final squishy fall into the slick mess below. "Take it off," screamed a woman in the front row. Miles shot her a look that said, "Lady please," louder than words ever could. Bass and Jason grinned at him.

"You heard the lady," Bass said. "Gotta put on a show if you want to get paid." He never loosened his grip on the man's ankles and continued to tug, but the ringer was making a bridge of himself between the three men, keeping himself out of the mud and in the match.

Miles rolled his eyes and pulled the waistband of his shirt over his head. Bass and Jason tugged the ringer's ankles. As the shirt came off, the man descended into the mud and out of the match. Tom took the opportunity to rejoin the action, attempting to tackle Miles while his attention was on his lost garment. Miles dodged the attack, leaning back as Tom slid by him to land face down in the mud, exiling himself from the match.

Miles, Bass and Jason were the only men remaining in the ring. They inspected each other, each man weighing his chances, his desire to win, and who he'd rather challenge. Bass smiled, strode to the side of the ring and stole the glass of the woman who'd demanded that Miles disrobe. "Mine is already off," he said to her with a suggestive grin as he emptied the contents of her cup. The cheap liquor burned his throat, but it also burned away his tension. The crowd loved him and glasses were forced between the ropes all around the ring.

"How the hell does he do that?" Jason asked in awe.

Miles just shook his head. "And when he was good, he was very, very good."

"Do we let him win?"

"That means we have to lose."

"Bring it, old man."

Miles and Jason would never agree who had gone down first and who had stayed to fight after he'd been eliminated from the competition. Their battle was longer than all the prior action and only ended when both were covered in mud and wrung out from the encounter. Bass himself rang the bell to end the match and marched to the center of the wring with drinks for his filth covered men. They rewarded his attention by sandwiching him in a man hug, rubbing their bare chests against his to be sure that he too was a dirty, dirty boy, much to the delight of the inflamed crowd.

It was a long night. At the end of it, Jason came home.


End file.
